I’d heard my mom describe being in the room as someone passes away as a “privilege” and I will admit, it struck me as odd. A privilege? Don’t you mean depressing? That must be what you meant to say. Or scary as hell? Yeah, that’s probably what she meant. But a few weeks ago, after sitting at the foot of my grandma’s bed as she took a few last peaceful breaths, I finally understood what my mom meant. It is a privilege to be there in those moments, because not everyone gets that. And as hard as it is to watch someone you love leave this world, it’s also an honor to be there to help them along. To make them comfortable. To hold their hand or stroke their face or wet their lips or just to whisper “I love you” in their ear. I wouldn’t trade those moments for anything and I am so thankful I made it there in time.

A few days later, while we were at the funeral saying our final goodbyes, I was having a serious internal struggle about whether or not I was going to speak. I had something prepared. A few paragraphs typed out and stuffed into my purse. One minute I was ready to tell the minister that I was for sure going to speak, and the next I was ready to go outside and set that piece of paper on fire and find the nearest bar. Funerals are dumb. Dying is stupid. There was no way I was getting up there to stutter like an idiot in front of all my grandma’s friends and family. She deserved better than that.

I sat and listened to the minister speak so kindly about my grandma. How humble she was about her crocheting talent. She made blankets for everyone. Beautiful, elaborate blankets. She made blankets for the hospital, so they’d have something special to wrap stillborn babies in. She crocheted clothes for my barbies when I was a kid. They are amazing. And for her, it was no big deal. It was just something she did. And I cried because I wish I’d told her how special all those things were too me. Maybe she knew. I hope she knows now.

When it was my mom’s turn to speak, she talked about my grandma’s strength and how she loved her family and cared for them the best she knew how. But one thing really stood out to me, and it’s when my mom said she couldn’t ever remember a time when she saw my grandma afraid. She was strong and she did what had to be done. It was true. And there I was with sweaty palm over whether or not I was going to get up and talk to a room full of people for 2 minutes. She’s have had no problem talking to all them. And so, I decided I wouldn’t either.

This is the story I shared with them:

A couple of months ago I was visiting my grandma in the hospital. Her heath was declining pretty rapidly, and mentally it seemed like she was barely there. But somehow, through all the illness and confusion, she was determined to have her personality shine through. She joked with the nurses and every offer of help was met with an “I can do it myself!” That was definitely grandma.

Eventually it was just the two of us in the room. I turned on White Christmas, a movie I watched for the first time with her so many years ago. After a while I realized my grandma had stopped watching the movie, and was smiling and staring at me instead. I smiled back and said “I love you Grandma.” She replied “Probably not as much as I love you. You know, you seem just like one of my grandkids.”

She didn’t remember who I was.

My heart sank a little. She didn’t know me. Except, she still knew she loved me. And in that moment I realized what an amazing gift she’d just given me. She showed me that while this life may take our bodies and our minds, those aren’t required for love. Our souls take care of that for us. There I was, sitting with a woman who’d forgotten me, but our souls were still as connected as ever. And I knew they always would be.

Thank you Grandma for being so determined to stay who you were through everything, and for the comfort I feel now knowing that even though you’re gone from this earth, your love remains.

A few weeks ago I got a message from Ryan. Our cat Norton had died suddenly. My heart sank. Norton had only been “my” cat for a few years, but I’d grown to love him so much. I doubt I’ll ever meet a cat like him again. Cuddly and friendly to everyone. Even people who don’t like cats couldn’t help but like Norton. He loved being around his humans or cuddling with the other cats. Sometimes he’d escape the house and worry us to death, but he always managed to find his way back. Probably because he was hungry for tortilla chips. He really did eat tortilla chips. One of a kind, that cat.

I miss him.

Then just a week or so later, Ryan messaged me again. Our cat Delylia was really sick and he was on the way to vet with her. The next message was that she didn’t make it. I was in shock. Thankfully her death was not related to Norton’s, and the rest of the cats have been given a clean bill of health.

I was not looking for a cat the day I found Delylia. A shelter had set up outside of a pet store, and of course I stopped to give the animals some love. When I picked up Delylia, she cuddled into my arms like she thought they were the safest place in the world. I promptly wrote a check to the shelter for $50 and took her home with me. She was always a little scared (sometimes a lot scared), but gosh I loved that cat. I don’t know what the year or so was like that she lived before she found me, but I don’t think it was pleasant. I hope the years she got to spend with us made up for whatever happened to her before.

I miss her too.

They were laid to rest next to each other, and in a weird way, that gives me some comfort. They liked to cuddle up next to each other, so it seems right that they’re next to each other now.

This is supposed to be the post where I regale you with stories about how much we’ve been up to so far this month. And I can only assume you’d be totally impressed by often we go to story time at the library or the park or mommy-and-me yoga or to the natural food store to buy kale (lol, what’s kale?).

Instead, let me tell you what we’ve really been up to.

Finger painting in the backyard. With no pants on. Well, I had pants on. I think. Probably 50/50 chance I had pants on.

Eating finger paint in the backyard. He learned that non-toxic does not mean delicious.

I’ve helped Wyatt in and out of these boots 9,823 times. This is also his “going to Walmart don’t care” outfit. I think the fleece camo cargo pants give it a little extra ‘murica.

We threw open the blinds a few times so the neighbors could watch me chase Wyatt around the house yelling things like “Where did you find those scissors?!!” or “Please stop hitting the dog with your hockey stick!” or my favorite, when he’s naked after a bath “Why are you squatting down like that? You better not be pooping on the rug again!”

Wyatt formed his own one-man band. I’d describe his music as a folk/heavy metal fusion. Lots of harmonica and screaming. And based on how often I have to clean up his musical equipment, I’m pretty sure I’ve become his roadie. He pays me in kisses though, so I’ll stick it out.

Wyatt has been playing with every inappropriate item in the backyard that he can get his hands on (he’s holding some of the inner workings of a burnt out firework, of course). And I let him. He’s pictured here being highly amused by my parenting skills.

So, what have you been up to lately? (if it has anything to do with kale I don’t want to hear about it)

This is how I fair: Find food. Eat food. Repeat. And that’s pretty much how our Minnesota State Fair experience went yesterday. I have no regrets! Except maybe skipping the wine slushy. Why did I skip the wine slushy?

The highlight of Wyatt’s day may have been the shuttle ride to the fair. He was also the most stylin’ person on the bus.

Maybe even at the entire fair.

Our first stop was Lulu’s, where we got fried lobster and fried macaroni and cheese. On sticks, of course. They were fast at LuLu’s too. I’d gone to the bathroom while Ryan was ordering and by the time I got back everyone was chowing down without me. Hence my hasty photo of half-eaten mac and cheese balls. That’s the lobster in the background. And it was amazing.

Next up were the blue cheese and corn fritters from the Blue Barn. Hands down my favorite food all day. We even ordered more on the way out of the fair. Also, I think my mom makes a pretty good hand model.

After the corn fritters we had a loose goal of making it over to get a scone (which we never actually got) but got sidetracked by the roasted corn on the cob. Next year I’m getting two ears to help alleviate even more of the guilt over all the fried food I’ll eat.

And now it’s the infamous “shrimp dog.” I probably wouldn’t go out of my way to get it again, but I still thought it was good. Everyone else hated it. I guess the fair can’t win them all.

A few meltdowns later (only a couple of them were mine) we made it over to the animal buildings. Wyatt pet a piglet, hung out with some horses, and only tried to kick a couple of cows.

After a stop at the horses and the all-you-can-drink milk stand, we made the trek over to the pretzel-coated cheese curds. We all approved of the cheesy goodness.

Then we kind of got stuck watching this parade of randomness. I’m not sure what the requirement for entry was, but the bar was obviously set pretty low. Also, when did Smokey the Bear start wearing mom jeans?

After the freak show parade ended, we had a short visit with a friend and started making the long walk back toward our exit. Of course, we weren’t about to leave the fair without some Sweet Martha’s cookies. And 30 minutes after getting in line, we had them. The things we’ll do for cookies.

So really, we were actually going to the exit now. Right after pierogies.

I’m going to apologize in advance if I start to ramble here. Because I probably will. Because I’m feeling a little bit defeated and I just want to write until I magically feel better.

Think it will work? Let’s hope.

Wyatt had his 18 month checkup today. He’s still a little bigger than average, except for his head. I will always thank him for his small head. Always.

He’s doing so well. He’s active and independent and hilarious and healthy. But he doesn’t talk. And this point, we’re officially planted into “speech delay” territory. Part of me wants to scream at the doctor that there’s nothing wrong with my kid. I can see that he’s trying to talk. He’s putting more and more together everyday. I know he’s going to get it. It’s just going to happen on his own time. When he’s ready. Why are we freaking out over this? He’s perfect, dammit.

But I don’t want to ignore it if he really does have a problem. The first step, apparently, is to see an audiologist. I can tell you right now he doesn’t have a hearing problem. Maybe a listening problem. But the kid hears just fine. But hey, if you want to waste my time and money at a specialist, why not?

And after that, they recommend having someone from the school system come to our home and do an assessment. I don’t know why that bothers me so much. I guess I feel like I’m on trial a little bit. Someone is going to come here and tell me all the ways I’ve gone wrong. Maybe I didn’t read to him enough or talk to him enough or play with him enough or sing to him enough. Maybe I let him watch too much TV or let him play with toys that weren’t educational enough or traumatized him every time I’ve gone to the bathroom by myself with the door shut.

Maybe I actually am just a terrible mom and I didn’t know it.

I don’t think that true. But this is the crap going through my head, because I just feel guilty. Not to mention frustrated, scared, pissed off, and sad.

I know I’m overreacting. It’s not like he has cancer. Or a brain injury. Or is paralyzed. In the grand scheme of things, this is going to be small. I know. But he’s my baby and when something goes wrong, even something little, I’m allowed to worry. I just have to freak out and get worked up and then let it go. It’s what I do.

What I do know right now is that my kid is amazing. Even if he did just try to sit in a toy dump truck and keeps stuffing toys up his pants legs.

Just look at that perfection (I don’t care if I’m biased)

If your kids have dealt with similar issues, I’d LOVE to hear from you. How you handled it. What brand of wine you drink. Whether or not you’re willing to send me cupcakes.